Small Battles
by Cee5
Summary: Mycroft is a soldier fighting for his country during World War II. Lestrade is the lover he left behind. The letters Lestrade sends him help soothing the pain, but it does not shield him from getting injured. Sherlock meets John one afternoon when returning home from school and they become friends. The world is at war and they will find the fragility of the human being.


Mycroft stumbled over the weight of the backpack he was carrying. Inside it there weren't exactly many things he needed. A few worn out clothes that he would throw away at the first opportunity, a couple of books with yellow-stained pages, some water. Letters. A bunch of letters he had tied with a ribbon and had kept inside a metal box, to keep them safe. It was the only thing he owned at the moment that was intact, except for the folds at the corners from being read over and over. He believed those letters were the reason he was still alive, still going, still fighting. They brought him hope and words of comfort.

He tried to look up, but the rain made it hard to distinguish anything amongst the contours of people that passed him by and the sky was so dark it could be night. The noise was deafening and he thought about the letters, the spidery calligraphy. He had to move.

The grenade came flying in his direction and he sensed it even before seeing it. He didn't have time for much. He managed to throw himself forward, to the opposite direction, but he realised with a heavy weight on his chest that it would not be enough.

There was a loud thump as his body hit the ground, an even louder explosion that made his ears ache, and after that, only darkness.

* * *

Sherlock peeked into the room, one eye closed and the other open, his curly hair a big mess. His face was still dirty but his mother had made him wash his hands before allowing his request. He walked inside the bedroom and placed the breakfast tray on the night stand, and then he sat down on a chair, observing his brother.

Mycroft had done little else but sleeping since he had returned home two days before. He looked thinner than Sherlock had ever seen him, and paler. His ginger hair offered a strange contrast against the whiteness of his face, and his hands were wrinkled, filled with dirt that didn't seem to come off, even though Sherlock knew they had been washed several times. He slept on his back, stiff posture, as if he was still obeying someone's command.

His brother did not wake up and Sherlock set eyes on the night stand. Next to the breakfast tray there was a very old metal box. It was black and gold and the ink seemed to be peeling off at the corners, letting the original colour of the metal make its appearance. Sherlock got up quietly, taking careful steps and then he picked up the box, looking askew at his brother.

"You shouldn't touch what's not yours."

Mycroft's voice resounded in the room, weak.

Sherlock jumped with the fright, dropping the box back in its original place, and he stepped back.

Mycroft was gazing at him, blinking repeatedly. He smiled. Not a full smile, a tired one. It seemed that everything about Mycroft screamed exhaustion and weariness. He tried to sit on the bed, which was an effort by itself, but his muscles still responded and he managed it alone. He reached out for the fresh glass of orange juice Sherlock had made himself and drank, thirsty. He blinked again and then, anticipating, he looked down. He closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath as reality sank in again, striking him like a slap across the face. No, his leg had not returned by miracle. Mycroft didn't believe in miracles, so he shouldn't really be expecting one. He should stop wishing it all to be a dream and start getting some grip on what was his reality now.

Sherlock was staring at him, frightened and curious. Mycroft took a good look at him. Sherlock was still young, tall for his age, and his green eyes seemed inquisitive of the world even when he wasn't making questions. The clothes he was wearing, Mycroft noted, had belonged to him, and they fit loose around Sherlock's torso and long legs.

"Did you crush the oranges yourself?" Mycroft inquired.

He didn't look at Sherlock when he asked; he looked outside the big window, seeing in the distance the back garden tree he had climbed so often as a child. Sherlock nodded, and noticing that his brother's eyes were not fixed on him, he answered, clearing his throat.

"Yes. It's from the orange tree. Mama collected them herself. I helped."

Sherlock was still in that age when children are proud of every little thing they do, and everyone else is proud as well. With eleven years old, he was clever but still naïve at times.

"Thank you." Mycroft said.

He hated this. He hated the fact that he had to return home invalid. He hated that other people had to care for him, that he was now completely useless. He hated that he had trouble staring into his brother's eyes for fear of seeing pity, even if he hadn't yet seen it there. But what he hated the most was the fact that he felt like a stranger. He used to know how to talk to his brother, what to say, how to make him laugh. How to teach him all he needed to know about the world. And now he could hardly bear face him because he felt like a failure.

The doorbell went off. Two rings. Mycroft clenched his hands into fists.

"Tell mother I don't want to see anyone."

Sherlock knew things were wrong when Mycroft called their Mama, mother. He still interfered.

"But, I am pretty sure it is-"

"Tell mother I don't want to see anyone!"

The repetition was harsher and louder and Sherlock walked out of the room in a rush, closing the door behind him.

Mycroft frowned. His throat was dry and he heard the familiar voices talking in the living room, Sherlock stepping in the conversation, and after a while the front door being closed.

Mycroft knew he couldn't hide forever. He knew he would have to face Lestrade eventually, but not now. He would delay that as much as possible. Before he left to the war he was a complete man with a future. Now he was a worthless soldier with one limb less and a box full of letters to haunt him forever.

* * *

A nurse would come to the house every day, to help Mycroft moving around a little to avoid sore spots, and to help him adapt to his new life. Mycroft almost chuckled at the world. He never thought 'new' could be punctuated with so much misery, so little hope in the future.

When the nurse left it was Mycroft and Sherlock's mother who took care of Mycroft. He didn't need much attention; on the contrary, he refused it.

He sat on the bed, looking at the crutches the nurse had brought him, wishing to use them to break every single thing in his reach. His father had come home to visit him – he was an official and a busy man, and his presence was rare – and Mycroft saw the pity then. His father gave him words of solidarity that Mycroft sincerely wished he had never had to hear, and left saying he was very proud of him. That time Mycroft actually chuckled, all alone in his room. No one should be proud of him. No one.

Lestrade continued to come to the house every day, and every time Mycroft's refusal would send him away. Sherlock observed Lestrade attentively, would see the way he pressed his hands against each other, pleading to see Mycroft, and the way his mother would apologise and say she didn't want to upset Mycroft. Then Lestarde would leave, hunched back, with a promise that he would come back the next day. He always did.

* * *

Sherlock knocked on the door of his brother's room and walked in after being given permission. Mycroft had taken the habit of sitting down on the chair by the window, looking outside, always in the direction of the orange tree. Sometimes he would see Sherlock climbing it, almost falling and he would try to get up, but soon would realise he would never be able to be fast enough to avoid the fall that never came.

Sherlock sat on the bed.

"Why don't you want to see Greg?"

The question was so simply put that it took Mycroft by surprise. He clenched his jaw before answering.

"I don't want him to see me like this."

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft shook his head.

"Why the hell do you think, Sherlock?" He asked, raising his voice. He didn't like the man he had become, this constant anger that took hold of him. He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I…"

"No." Sherlock said. "I am sorry. It was a stupid question."

He got up and approached Mycroft. Even standing whilst Mycroft was sitting, he wasn't much taller than his older brother.

"I just think you should give him a chance." He tried. "He comes here every day. I don't think he will give up on trying seeing you again."

Mycroft could have dismissed it, send Sherlock away. He didn't.

"Greg deserves to be happy with someone… less injured." Mycroft explained.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe he doesn't want someone less injured. Maybe he wants you, as you are."

Mycroft could feel he was about to start crying. He had become a ridiculous man. How could Greg still love him like this? It was better this way, while he still could fool himself, make believe it was him keeping Greg away, instead of having the reality of Greg's disenchantment cast upon him.

"I am not who Gregory thinks I still am. Not who I used to be."

"You seem exactly the same to me." Sherlock refuted. "Just with one less leg. Which, in my opinion, doesn't make any difference, unless he is expecting you to run the marathon for him or something."

Mycroft turned his head and faced his brother.

"Maybe I am more changed than you think. Maybe I don't want Greg anymore."

Sherlock was annoyed with Mycroft. He stepped backwards.

"You call his name in your sleep every night." Sherlock pointed out. "Maybe you are right after all. Maybe you have changed. The brother I knew was not a liar."

He turned around and walked out of the room. Mycroft sat there, as if he had been punched in the stomach, and he let the tears run down his face, without fighting them. What sort of man had he become indeed?

* * *

Sherlock walked outside the house without even warning his mother. He was mad at Mycroft because he could see his brother was hurt, and he could do nothing for him if Mycroft didn't want his help. He wanted to help Lestrade but their mother said they had to respect Mycroft, that it was no use forcing people and things on him. That he needed time.

His brother's nightmares had woken him up several times. The way Mycroft screamed in his sleep, the agony, the way he shouted Greg's name as if he was drowning and that name was his life saver, made Sherlock's hair stand on end. Their mother would wake Mycroft up and calm him down and then she would close the door as she left the room and order Sherlock to go back to sleep, that his brother was only having a nightmare. The thing is that Sherlock was not stupid; he knew that his brother's nightmares were more memories than imagination. He wished he could take it all away and make his old brother, the one who had taught him to make paper planes and put letters together to form words, come back and take this broken stranger away.

Sherlock heard Mycroft screaming but he did not get up. He waited, listening to the sounds of his mother calming Mycroft down, waiting until the house was silent again. Then, he walked on tiptoes and opened the door of his brother's room slowly, making sure the hinges didn't screech. He paced inside the room, always keeping an eye on Mycroft.

The box had not been moved from the night stand since day one. Sherlock knew Mycroft had not touched it once. So he picked it up and tried to see if it was possible to open it there. The lid was rusty and stuck but he forced it carefully and finally it gave in. Inside there were loads of letters, and from what Sherlock could see, all with the same handwriting. He removed the letters from inside the box and then closed the lid, placing it back on the night stand. He took one last look at Mycroft and then went back to his own room.

He sat on the bed and removed the thin ribbon that tied the letters together. It was made of raffia and was fraying in most places. Sherlock placed it on the night stand, and started to look at what he had by now realised were letters from Lestrade to his brother. It was dark and he couldn't see properly and he didn't dare light a candle or turning on the lights. He moved closer to the window. A full moon shone bright in the sky and then he could identify the outline of the letters.

They were arranged by date, and they started a few years before. The same calligraphy, sometimes neater, other times more scribbled, spilled words of affection and love. The further in time they went, the kinder the sentences became, the more intimate. Most of them contained answers, which meant that these letters must have a match of their own, the other side of that story told by Mycroft's point of view. Sherlock read them attentively, trying not to laugh. People in love always seemed ridiculous to his eyes, mainly because he had never felt love himself. When he got bored he tied the letters with the ribbon again and he kept them in a secret compartment on the floor. Not because he was afraid to wake up Mycroft while retrieving them, but because he was sure his brother would not dare check the box to confirm the letters were there, and because he had a plan in mind.

* * *

Sherlock woke up early the next day and he left the house, leaving a note to his mother on top of the kitchen table. She would not be worried or find it strange; Sherlock used to spend a lot of time in the streets when he was not at school, and she knew he would return home in time for the meals to be served. Usually, with Mycroft refusing to leave his room, Sherlock was his mother's only company in the house and even if they didn't speak all that much, just each other's presence was enough.

He crossed the street, a brown bag tucked under his arm. His shoes were dirty with mud and he made a mental note to clean them thoroughly before checking on Mycroft again, or his brother would know his steps that morning. Mycroft had taught Sherlock to recognise mud and dirt from pretty much all places in London and he would recognise the place that mud came from even better than any other.

Sherlock knocked on the door once and stepped back, waiting. He heard footsteps approaching and Gregory Lestrade opened the door, looking at him.

"Sherlock?" He said, surprised, Then a look of worry crossed his face. "Is everything okay, is Mycroft…?"

"He's fine!" Sherlock assured, looking at the police inspector. "May I come in?"

Lestrade found the request unusual but he stepped out of the way and invited Sherlock in. Sherlock cleaned his shoes on the entrance mat and looked around, as Lestrade closed the door behind him. The house was neat, organised and filled with books and vinyl records. A record player was the biggest piece of decoration in the living room and a song was playing. Lesatrde stepped forward, passing Sherlock and inciting him to leave the hall and make the complete entrance into the living room.

"What brings you here?" He asked, pointing at a chair. "Do you need anything? Does Mycroft called me?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No. I am sorry." He said. "He still doesn't want to see you."

Sherlock dismissed Lestrade's attempt to offer him a chair with a hand gesture and then he fetched the paper bag he had been carrying underneath his arm, and spilled its contents on top of the living room table.

Lestrade recognised the letters straight away and he exhaled.

"He kept them." Sherlock said. "It was the only thing they managed to save from his backpack after the explosion."

Lestrade nodded, speechless.

"Maybe if you continue, he will eventually want to talk to you." Sherlock said,

The other man took a moment to assimilate Sherlock's words. He swallowed.

"You mean… you think I should write to him?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Yes. He thinks you don't want him, not without a leg."

Lestarde almost scoffed at the words.

"He's an idiot."

"Yeah." Sherlock agreed.

They both smiled sadly at each other.

"Anyway," Sherlock said, picking up the letters. "I should bring this back. If you want to write him a letter I can wait a bit and deliver it to him."

Lestrade felt lost. He didn't know what to say. How could he convince Mycroft that he wanted him as he was? He had been trying to visit him since Mycroft had returned home just to be turned down. How could he put into words without forewarning all he had longed to say? He grabbed a chair to keep his balance.

"Tomorrow." Lesatrde said. "Can you come back tomorrow? I need to get my thoughts straight."

Sherlock agreed.

"Same time?" He asked.

"Yes. Same time is perfect."

Sherlock put the letters back into the bag and then turned on his heels, waiting for Lestrade to guide him to the door.

"Thank you." Lestrade said, opening the front door to let him through.

"I don't like to see my brother miserable." Sherlock said.

He walked away and Lestrade followed him with his gaze until he was just a small spot in the distance. The word 'miserable' kept playing in his head and it only made it all worse.

He sat by the table and started to write; to his surprise, he had a lot more to say than he previously thought.

* * *

The next day Sherlock knocked on Lestrade's door at the same time as the day before. And the next day as well. Lestrade had stopped going to their house, because he wanted to show Mycroft he respected his decision, but he was far from giving up on him. And this way, day after day, Sherlock took one letter after another to his brother, filled with warm words, memories of a past together, and reassurance.

Mycroft had slowly started to walk by himself, with the help of the crutches. It was not easy, and he would lose patience on many occasions, cursing and shouting at everyone in the surroundings. He would feel terribly guilty afterwards, but Mycroft was also too proud to apologise. He would start it all over, slower, and he would walk further day by day. At night, when the house seemed deserted and no one could see him, he would read Lestrade's letters and fall asleep clutching at them. Then, he would put them inside the metal box and try to forget about it. He wanted Lestrade to move on; he was giving him an opportunity to find someone who had more value, someone who would not let him down. What Mycroft didn't understand was that, for Lestrade, he would always be a hero.

* * *

Sherlock held on to the straps of his backpack, looking ahead. His feet thumped on the muddy ground and it was starting to rain, so he hurried his pace. School had not been good that day. He had proven his teacher wrong and got into a fight with one of his classmates, and had been sent out of the classroom to 'calm down.'

Sherlock scoffed, remembering the look on his teacher's face when he had explained why she was at fault, the expression of disgust on his classmates' face, the way they kept calling him freak. He shook his head, trying to send the thoughts away. If he continued to behave like this he would get into trouble and he had enough problems at school as it was; he had heard his parents talking about him when they thought he couldn't listen, the way the school director complained about Sherlock's 'self-assurance and arrogant attitude' and how that was not welcomed at school, when he was being taught by people who were 'more wise and experienced.' Sherlock was scoffing again, getting angrier and angrier at the situation, at how unfair it all was, when he felt a heavy object hit him on the back, making him fall to the ground.

He landed on his legs and knees and then rolled over on his back with the weight of his backpack. When he looked up he was being starred at by three students. Three of his classmates.

"Not so brave now, are you Sherlock? Let's see how cleverness can help you when we get you here alone."

The kick came sharp and hit him on the stomach. Sherlock panted, turning to the side as the pain struck him. But they didn't stop there. They hit him again, with dirty shoes against his ribs and Sherlock whimpered, struggling to breathe. Then, suddenly, a voice rose over the commotion and Sherlock heard the sound of a hand landing on ribs, striking hard and breaking them. Not his ribs, though.

He turned around slowly to face his bullies and he saw as a boy, smaller than he was, managed to fight the three other boys alone, punch after punch, hitting all the right places. The fight didn't last long and the three boys were on their knees, holding on to their backs and screaming.

"Go away!" The boy shouted, threatening, and with a terrified expression on their faces, the three other boys got up and stumbled away, running to the best of their capabilities, getting out of sight.

The boy approached Sherlock. He was blonde, his face was dirtier than Sherlock's and he extended a hand. Sherlock grabbed it and the boy helped him get up.

"Are you hurt?" He asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

"It's nothing." He said.

He was in fact in pain, but after what he had seen the boy doing, he didn't want to complain.

"You are going to get a bad bruise here." The boy said, touching Sherlock's cheek.

It was sore already and Sherlock flinched at the other boy's touch.

"Thank you. For that." Sherlock managed to say, swallowing.

"You're welcome."

The boy had stepped backwards, hands behind his back. Then he extended his hand again.

"I'm John."

Sherlock took John's dirty hand in his.

"Sherlock."

"What's that?" The other boy asked.

"My name. My name is Sherlock."

John laughed.

"That's a funny name, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled a bit.

"Thank you." He repeated, feeling a bit foolish.

"That's fine. You don't have to thank me again. I am sorry if they are giving you trouble. Maybe I should teach you how to fight."

Sherlock nodded. John looked at him one last time.

"Well, I better get going. Take care, Sherlock."

Sherlock liked the way his name sounded when John pronounced it, and John started to walk away.

"Wait!"

Sherlock's voice resounded on the deserted street. He ran to John, but had to slow down, because running was not comfortable with the pain he was feeling now. He didn't think he had anything broken, but it still hurt. He stopped in front of John, looking down.

"Are you hungry?" He asked.

He could see, by looking at John, that he was an orphan, had been living in the streets for more than six months, and that his deceased father must have been a carpenter. John's hands had callouses that belonged to a time long before he had been thrown into the streets. From his clothes, Sherlock deduced his mother had been a seamstress, and he observed the perfect lines of John's worn out, torn outfit.

John nodded to the question, if shyly.

"I'll get you some food." Sherlock promised. "Just stay here and I'll be right back, okay?"

John agreed and watched Sherlock disappear, walking as fast as his injured back allowed him to. John sat on the side of the road for a long time, until it started to rain harder, then it got dark and finally he got up, realising Sherlock was not coming and he needed to find a pace to sleep that night.

* * *

Sherlock was sitting on top of the orange tree. The leaves concealed him almost completely and Mycroft could hear his sobs from time to time.

"You should go inside, it's getting dark." Mycroft advised.

Sherlock sighed.

"Why don't _you_ go inside?"

It was not usual for Sherlock to be rude and Mycroft had heard him shout at their mother before dinner, but he was unable to make out what they were arguing about.

"What happened?" He asked,

He had sat underneath the tree, crutches on each side of their legs – well, leg – and he looked up at the dark sky. It was cold and the terrain was still humid but he didn't care. He was starting to get tired of sitting in his room all day.

"Nothing." Was Sherlock's response.

"Something has to have happened, Sherlock."

"Maybe I don't want to tell you."

Mycroft heard the quiver in Sherlock's voice.

"You are having trouble at school." Mycroft affirmed.

"People are stupid there. Everyone is stupid and they hate being told so."

Mycroft sighed. He knew what it was like to have to deal with this sort of things, thought it seemed to him that Sherlock was having a lot more trouble with keeping his mouth shut and avoid speaking his mind than Mycroft had ever had.

"But you are not upset because of school." Mycroft deduced.

He waited for a while, listening to the first signs of a thunderstorm forming in the distance.

"Three boys from my class hit me today on my way home. And one boy appeared and scared them away, and I promised him some food but mother didn't let me leave the house before she had taken care of my wounds, and when I finally went back with the food he was not there anymore."

Sherlock stopped his narrative with a sob, and he dug his nails on the tree trunk.

"I'm sorry to hear it." Mycroft said.

He didn't have much to offer Sherlock except vacant cliché words of comfort, and he himself was so broken that he didn't really know what else to say. Sherlock was silent for a while. He cleaned the tears on his face with the back of his hand.

"Why don't you want to talk to Greg?"

"We already talked about this, Sherlock."

Mycroft heard the rustling of the leaves as Sherlock came down the tree and sat by his side.

"Do you still like him?"

Mycroft swallowed before answering.

"Yes." He whispered, frowning as if answering that had taken effort.

"Then why aren't you two together again?" Sherlock inquired.

"Some things aren't as simple as they seem. Like you, taking food to the boy that helped you. Sometimes intentions are not enough."

Sherlock could not understand how one thing had to do with another, but he was too tired to continue with the conversation. He leaned his head against Mycroft's shoulder and drifted into sleep. Mycroft felt an urge to get up and carry his younger brother, tuck him in bed, as he had done so many times before, but he couldn't. He had to shake Sherlock awake and ask his help instead and it felt wrong, so wrong.

* * *

Sherlock looked for John everyday on his way back home from school the week after. The three boys had stopped pestering him and now looked at him with fear, as if they were expecting John to show up at any corner, ready to defend Sherlock. Sherlock even changed his route from the school to his house, but for three days he was unsuccessful. Then, on the fourth day, on the same street he had been attacked by the bullies, John was waiting for him.

Sherlock started to run when he saw John, his blonde hair a dishevelled mess, his clothes as dirty as before. Sherlock stopped as he reached him, facing the floor.

"I am sorry." He apologised.

John shook his head, dismissing the apology.

"It's okay. I couldn't wait very long; I had to find a place to sleep before it got too dark."

Sherlock removed his backpack from his back and placed it on the floor, opening it. He removed a cloth bag from inside it and extended it in John's direction.

"Here. I can bring more tomorrow if you want."

John opened the bag and inside there was bread with butter and a bottle of milk. John looked at Sherlock and Sherlock saw his eyes were shinning, as if he was about to cry.

"Thank you." John mumbled.

He sat on the pavement, gesturing for Sherlock to follow him and took a bit of the bread, eating it as if he hadn't eaten for days. Sherlock observed him with curiosity.

"Oh, I am sorry." John said, mouth full, as he noticed Sherlock's eyes set on him. "Do you want some?"

Sherlock's heart seemed to shift inside his chest. He shook his head.

"No, of course not. That's yours. You're hungry, I have more at home. That's for you."

The look of thankfulness on John face filled Sherlock with warmth, and John got back to his bread and milk. He finished the meal in a hurry, eating and drinking it all up. Sherlock realised he should have probably gotten more. He had an idea.

"I can bring food every day, to you. If you want." Sherlock offered.

John smiled.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. We have food, not a great variety, but there's always bread and milk and I can bring some. Mama won't mind."

John, with a full belly, smiled again.

"Thank you." He returned Sherlock his bag. "Do you want to play?"

Sherlock agreed, excited. He never had anyone to play with, and he used to rummage the streets alone, finding ways to entertain himself. John got up, and as he had done on the day they had met, he extended a hand to Sherlock, helping him getting up. He touched Sherlock's cheek with the tip of his fingers.

"It's healing."

Sherlock made a funny face, trying to look at John's hand on his face, and John laughed out loud.

"Last one to the shoe shop is a rotten egg!"

John started to run and Sherlock followed him, catching up easily. John, seeing Sherlock was about to overtake him, grabbed his hand and Sherlock realised this was no longer a race. It was a companionship, and it would continue as such from that day on.

* * *

Three months went by, and John and Sherlock's relationship grew stronger. Every day after school, rain or sun, Sherlock would walk the exact same path and find John waiting for him. They would run until they were out of breath and then Sherlock would pick his school books and teach John all he had learned at school that day. Sometimes the subjects would be boring, so Sherlock would fill them with fantastic stories and details he knew by heart, taught by his older brother. Later on Sherlock started to bring adventure books along and he would read them to John. They would tell each other about their lives, the family John had lost and the one Sherlock still had, and they seemed to understand each other even when they were not speaking.

When they parted Sherlock left with a weight on his chest because he knew John would sleep on the streets again, but John's heart would feel lighter because now he knew loneliness had nothing to do with a lack of physical company. And even as the hours of the scary night ticked by, he didn't feel so lonely anymore. Not when he reminisced the afternoons with his new friend, and all the knowledge and happiness he brought with him.

* * *

Mycroft took a deep breath before raising a hand to knock on the door. His knuckles crushed three times against the wood and then he waited. The door was opened to show Lestrade standing on the threshold.

Lestrade exhaled when he saw Mycroft standing there, at his doorstep. He blinked a few times, trying to fight back the tears of relieve and joy. Without being able to restrain himself, he lurched forward and held Mycroft in his arms. Mycroft stumbled, losing grip of one of his crutches. Lestrade let go and picked it up from the floor.

"I'm sorry." He stuttered, smiling and hardly believing Mycroft was actually there.

"It's okay." Mycroft assured, looking at the floor. He didn't have the courage to face Lestrade just yet.

"Come in." Lestrade invited, giving him the crutch back and stepping out of the way. He wasn't sure if he should help Mycroft but he thought it was probably better not to. Mycroft entered the house and stepped into the living room.

Lestrade waited for Mycroft to take everything in. Mycroft opened his mouth, trying to speak, but before he could utter a word an air raid siren was heard. Lestrade looked up, following the direction of the sound and then he approach Mycroft.

"We need to hide."

Mycroft clutched at the crushes. If they had to move now, they would be doomed. He couldn't run, or walk great lengths properly. He knew it had been a mistake to come here this day, he knew he should have never tried to talk to Lestrade ever again, and this was just another sign.

"Come on," Lestrade said, opening a door by the left side of the kitchen. "Do you think you can go down?"

Mycroft looked at the open door and realised with relief that he was not going to have to leave the house, that their shelter was the basement, right there. He nodded and held on to his crutches. The stairs that led to the basement were steep and Mycroft was still not used to stairs like this. He tried to balance himself on the side, against the wall, focusing to avoid falling forward and ruin everything. Lestrade had gone down the stairs first and he was looking up, observing Mycroft's effort. He realised Mycroft was not going to be able to do that by himself, so he went up the stairs again and arranged a bit of room by Mycroft's side, took away one of his crutches and allowing Mycroft to hold on to him, he helped him down.

The basement was not big, and it was filled with random stuff that Lestrade had kept there during the last year. He had managed to get a job at the police station and the wage was good enough to allow him to live all by himself, so he had found this house and tried to turn it into his own safe place. He was lucky about the basement, because it allowed him to shelter when the air raids had begun. Sometimes they were waiting for them, other times they would come at the most unexpected of hours.

There was an old single bed matrass on the floor and Lestrade helped Mycroft to sit. Then he went up the stairs again, got some food and water for both, and returned, turning the fluorescent light on, and closing the door behind him. They were bound to stay there for a few hours and Lestrade thought that maybe this was good; maybe what they needed was a reason to stay in the same place, to talk things out. And he missed Mycroft so much. All the letters he had wrote the last couple of months, the knowledge that Mycroft had received them and read them – Sherlock had assured him of that – had helped console him, but it did not do much to explain the state of the things between the two of them. He just wished this was not an omen, that the air raid sirens turned out to be nothing but a false alarm, and that they could get out of it alive.

* * *

Sherlock left school and went directly to the usual meeting spot. He had taken food with him that morning and he sat in class all day, counting the hours until he could see John again. John used to feel guilty about not having anything to offer Sherlock in return for the food, but he didn't realise that his company and friendship were more than Sherlock could have ever asked for. For the first time in his life, Sherlock had someone who understood him, who was not a quick-thinker but was still more clever than all kids at his school, and would learn easy once Sherlock explained him his way of seeing things.

Once they had sat together and John had tried to deduce people the way Sherlock used to do; he had failed completely, which made Sherlock laugh and then he explained why it was all so wrong, why John was seeing what was not relevant. John never felt stupid, not really. He knew Sherlock's ingenious mind was a gift he shouldn't attempt to achieve, and he was okay with it. He was better at other things, like climbing trees and mending clothes with whatever he had at hand, and at understanding feelings and the actions that derived from them.

That day they went to the river and they walked along it, playing amongst the rocks, making the small round pebbles they could find skip on the water's surface. Sherlock was rubbish at it and John laughed, trying to teach him. It was when they were returning to say goodbye to each other, the sky beginning to get dark, that Sherlock noticed John's shoes. He had seen them before, surely, and had taken them in with every other detail, but he had never acknowledged the fact that they were all torn open at the soles and that it was probably uncomfortable for John.

"You're shoes are ripped at the soles." He pointed out, speaking out loud, talking to John.

"Yes." John affirmed, looking at his own shoes, unable to understand why Sherlock was pointing it out to him now when he had always worn those shoes.

"So your feet must be wet now."

John nodded.

"Yes. It's okay, though, I am used to it."

Sherlock bit his lower lip for a second.

"I have an idea." He said. "I can get you a pair of shoes; we are the same size and I have some old shoes at home that I don't use anymore. And new socks, that are not wet."

John raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"You don't have to, Sherlock. It's okay-"

Sherlock interrupted him.

"No." He decided. "I'm going to get them. Will you wait here?"

They had reached their usual gathering point by then and John acquiesced.

"Okay. I'll wait here. Don't take long; I need to find a shelter before it gets too dark."

"No, I'll be five minutes!"

Sherlock started to run, looking back at John once, who was now smiling. He arrived home panting, and saw his mother working in the garden, as she used to do so often. She loved plants and flowers and many times she would stay there all afternoon until she realised it was too dark to see anything anymore. Sherlock walked in the direction of his room and let his backpack fall to the ground as soon as he reached it. He knew his mother hated when he didn't remove his shoes before entering the house, because he ended up dirtying the whole floor, but this was quick and he didn't want to fail John again. He got on his knees and removed a flimsy shoe box from underneath his bed. He opened it and inside, shinning, was the brand new pair of shoes he had picked up a few weeks ago by the shoe maker. Those shoes were for special occasions; to receive his father when he returned home, to wear on formal events. He shrugged. They were John's now, who could make much better use of them.

He got up and was about to get out of the house again when his mother walked into the kitchen carrying a jar decorated with beautiful white roses. Sherlock stopped at the entrance, staring at her. Luckily, he had removed the contents of his backpack and substituted them with the shoes, so she had no idea what he was up to.

His mother was about to ask him where he was headed to when the air raid siren went off.

"We need to shelter in the basement." His mother said.

Sherlock froze in place.

"No." He refused, unable to move. "We can't! I need to get out!"

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous. And your brother went out at a moment like this; I just hope he is safe with Greg."

Sherlock's face was a mirror or panic and desperation.

"Mama, you don't understand, I need to go out again. I'll be back in a minute, I need to go and get someone."

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous." His mother repeated, approaching him and holding him by his shoulders, opening the door that led to the basement. "You can't go out now. It's a possible air raid; we need to stay in, as safe as possible."

Sherlock had tears that he couldn't control streaming down his face by now.

"NO!" He shouted. "I need to save John! He is all alone and he is waiting for me! He has nowhere to go."

His mother forced him down the stairs, closing the door as she went in, Sherlock struggling to get free of her grip. She sat him down, both hands on top of his shoulders again so that he would pay attention to her.

"Listen, Sherlock." She pleaded, a kind tone on her voice. "I am sorry but we can't leave now."

Sherlock looked at the ground as his mother sat down next to him, fists clenched. He got up with a jump and before his mother could do anything, he ran up the stairs. His mother followed him, trying to stop him, get him back inside the basement, but Sherlock was too quick. He spotted the open kitchen window and he jumped, running without looking back, the voice of his mother calling his name, getting more and more distant, until he ceased to hear her. He ran without stopping and he reached he place he had left John just a few minutes before, but John was nowhere to be seen.

"John!" He shouted, putting one hand on each side of his mouth, to make it resound on the deserted street.

Sherlock panicked. John had run away, probably to seek refuge, and now he might be too late to get back home. He could see planes approaching in the distance, just a black blob up in the sky. He called again.

"John!" He was petrified, not knowing where to go. He knew he needed to get out of there, but suddenly his legs couldn't move.

"Sherlock!"

He heard the shout, his own name pronounced by the voice he knew so well.

"John!" He called again, a hint of hope in his voice.

"Sherlock!"

The voice was closer and he turned to his left, and he saw John. He ran in his direction.

"What the hell are you doing here?" John asked, his voice still louder than necessary. "Are you insane? You should be hiding!"

"I couldn't leave you here alone again, waiting for me."

John's face hardened.

"You're an idiot. Come on."

He held Sherlock's hand in his and he started to run as fast as he could. The planes were getting closer and Sherlock knew straight away this wasn't merely a warning. This time the planes would attack and they were both going to die.

John set the door of an old abandoned house wide open, and then he pulled up a trapdoor on the floor as the first sounds of artillery falling on the ground rolled. It was not a basement the trapdoor led to, it was a small place under the floor of the house, like a secret compartment, and it wasn't very deep. It was dirty and big enough for him and Sherlock to fit there, but barely.

They sat side by side, hearing the thunderous sounds over their heads, pressing shoulder against shoulder. Sherlock felt John's shaking hand touching him and then grabbing hold of his. He held tight, interlacing his fingers with Sherlock's. They hardly dared to breathe, afraid that it might start something.

"You're my best friend." John whispered, barely audible.

"And you are mine." Sherlock responded.

Then, they did the only thing they could. They waited.

* * *

Mycroft adjusted himself on the mattress, placing his crutches on the floor.

"Are you comfortable?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft nodded. It was strange to be here, so close to Lestrade, with whom he had shared so much, and yet felt now like the months apart had made them so distant. Mycroft knew he was not the man who had left his country to fight for it, not the same hopeful man that was certain to escape death's claws, to return to his lover and to the interrupted life he had left behind. He was more bitter, as if the world had chosen him to punish and he couldn't understand why. Lestrade's letters had helped him, but he could not write back, not when all he had to say were words of anger to Lestrade's words of love.

The world was rumbling over them, causing small bits of the ceiling to crumble around them, just dust, fortunately. The place seemed strong, and was deep enough to stay untouched by the air raid, but Mycroft's heart still thudded inside his chest.

"I missed you."

Lestrade's voice was just a whisper, and when Mycroft faced him he was looking at the floor. He didn't know what to say and 'I miss you too' seemed so vacant, so void of significance.

"Do you still love me?"

Lestrade spoke once more, fearing the answer but unable to stop himself. He needed to know. Mycroft clutched at the mattress, trying to control himself, but it was too late. Just like the dust falling from the ceiling, his heart was crumbling too, torn apart. He never thought he could ever feel this way, unable to suppress his feelings when he needed it the most. Lestrade raised his eyes to his face and Mycroft was sobbing, hunched back. Lestrade held him in his arms, getting closer.

"Shhh, it's okay, Mike, we'll be fine."

Mycroft shook his bowed head.

"No. No, we won't."

Lestrade didn't know what to say to that, so he placed a hand on Mycroft's face, and for the first time in so long, he kissed him. Carefully, without pushing, afraid of the outcome. Mycroft kissed him back, and he didn't want to, or at least this was the lie he told himself so often, praying he could finally believe it.

Their breath was uneven now and the sounds of the commotion outside the house even louder. They kissed through the night because they were at loss and they had a lot to make up for.

They didn't make love that night, because Mycroft refused to let Lestrade see him like that; but they lay down on the small mattress, their bodies close against each other, and they talked, like they used to. And Mycroft realised that yes, he was a different man. But that didn't mean he had to be a bad one at it.

When the sirens wailed again, an announcement of freedom to some and of death to others, Mycroft got up and saw something at the corner of the basement that got him thinking. Lestrade had gone upstairs to gauge the damage and when he came back down to fetch Mycroft, relived because the things that needed repair in the house were not too expensive, Mycroft decided that it was time to use his time in something more than sheer self-pity.

* * *

Sherlock tried to move, blinking several times, attempting to define where he was. He heard his name being called repeatedly and he tried to get up. It wasn't easy. He was covered in wood and cement and the dust flew about the place, tiny particles dancing amongst the rays of sun. His eyes adjusted to the luminosity and he coughed, trying to get away all of the wreckage on top of him. He tried to focus on what was happening as he heard his name being called again. It was his mother. The voice was getting closer and he tried to speak, but his throat was dry and though he mimicked the words no sounds came out of it. He coughed again and then tried once more.

"Here!"

It took some effort to say it and suddenly the reality of his situation landed upon him. John. John was with him, the house they were hiding in must have been struck by the air raid attack and its foundation had fallen around and on top of their hiding place. His mother's voice called over and over again.

"Here! I'm here!"

He removed the pieces of wood originating from the trapdoor that had been stripped apart to the side, trying to figure out if he had anything broken, but at least his hands and torso seemed fine. He felt a hand trying to grasp him. John.

"I'm here, John." He said, trying to soothe him, not knowing if John could hear him. "It's alright. We'll be alright."

He managed to get rid of what was keeping his torso down on the ground and sat upright, feeling a sharp pain on his leg. His mother's voice came again.

"I'm here!"

He shouted louder than before and the next thing he knew his mother was kneeling by his side, holing him, almost suffocating him.

"Mum, stop. You're hurting me. I'm fine." He hugged her back, nonetheless.

"I'm so sorry, I looked for you and couldn't find you, and then they started attacking, I had to shelter myself."

Sherlock was trying to get away now, trying to have a glimpse of John, who was buried underneath the wreckage.

"Help me." He asked his mother.

He had felt John's hand moving so he knew he was alive, but he needed to get John out of there, though he couldn't find the strength to get up. His mother saw what he was doing and realised there was someone else underneath the debris. They removed stone after stone and wood and other things they couldn't identify and finally John surfaced, his face hurt and bloodied, but alive.

"Sherlock."

His whispered name was the first thing John said and Sherlock could not explain how relieve swamped over him, so he held John tight, as his mother had held him before. John held back, nose pressed against the crook of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock's mother, cleaning her tears, helped Sherlock and John removing the ruins that were still blocking them, and with one of the boys holding on to each side of her, they all walked home together.

* * *

Two months after the air raid, Sherlock and John were playing on Sherlock's garden, trying to avoid stepping – unsuccessfully – on the trails of flowers Sherlock's mother had planted.

Sherlock had broken a leg during the air raid and now that he was back in full form he was taking advantage of his regained freedom. John had, as if by miracle, gotten out of it uninjured, just with a few scratches and bruises that were well taken care of by Sherlock's mother.

Lestrade was sitting on the garden bench beside Mycroft, who was working on something. Mycroft was not sure it would work, maybe it was a frustrated attempt, but he had to try it out nevertheless. He was still using a sandpaper to work on the last details and he saw that John had stopped, looking at him.

"It's not going to work like that." John said.

Sherlock stopped on his tracks and walked closer to John, seeing him approaching Mycroft. John took the object from Mycroft's hands, a mixture of plastic, fabric and wood. He looked at the wood work and explained a few technical aspects. Mycroft listened attentively, John's suggestions making complete sense, and having him understanding why that had not worked before.

"How can you know so much about wood work?" Lestrade asked, frowning.

"My father was a carpenter; I helped him all the time. Before he died, I mean."

Lestrade looked at John with affection.

"Do you have a place to live, John?"

John shook his head. For the time being he was staying with Sherlock and his family, but they hadn't discussed the matter yet.

"Would you like to come and live with me?"

The question took everyone by surprise. Mycroft stared at Lestrade, mouth agape. Sherlock's face was a mixture of astonishment and joy.

John swallowed.

"I'd like that very much, sir."

Lestrade chuckled at the solemn way John had pronounced 'sir.'

"We'll take care of that, then. And we'll put you in school as well." He added. "No more living on the streets for you. Promise."

John didn't know what to say, how to express the thankfulness that had invaded his heart right now. So he did what he always did best. He opened his arms and took Lestrade into an embrace. Lestrade laughed, satisfied with John's response, happy he had the means to give him a future. Mycroft looked at him, proudly. Lestrade locked eyes with Mycroft, and he saw love there, and that was all he had ever asked for. It would all be okay.

A few days later Mycroft was trying out the first prosthetic leg ever invented, something he had come up with whilst lying by Lestrade's side on the basement of his house. It wasn't perfect but it worked. On the same day John moved into Lestrade's house and around the country broadcasts announced the same and people got out of their houses and celebrated.

The war was won, and so were their small battles.


End file.
